


hello hurricane

by basset_voyager



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, POV America, do u ever cry because of supergirls in love, femslash fluff is my chocolate ice cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:06:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basset_voyager/pseuds/basset_voyager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America is totally cool and in control of this situation.</p><p>(That’s bullshit.</p><p>She wants to kiss Kate Bishop.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hello hurricane

If there’s one thing America Chavez has learned, it’s that when you can kick holes in the universe, you kind of stop being impressed by things. She grew up under the ever-moving stars of the Utopian Parallel, she knows what a supernova looks like close-up, she’s flown over a version of Manhattan made entirely of chocolate pudding – what’s a regular old Earth compared to that? It’s not that she can’t appreciate the little things; give her a great pair of jeans and some Korean barbecue and she’s set for life. There’s just not much that surprises her anymore. Or makes her nervous. Or makes her blush.

There is one exception to this rule, however – one frustrating, amazing, incomparably _annoying_ exception. Its name is Kate.

By all accounts, Kate Bishop shouldn’t be that impressive. She’s not a crystal hurricane or a Kree war strike or an interdimensional energy burst. She’s not a war goddess or an unstable wormhole, she is not the vastness of space or the sound of time going by. Hell, she doesn’t even have superpowers. There’s nothing special about a spoiled princess with a bow and arrow who’d probably die of grief if you took away her iphone for five minutes. America sees a hundred things more interesting than Kate Bishop before breakfast.

Except, if that were true, America would be able to stop thinking about her. She’d stop ending up on Kate’s version of Earth, wandering around New York with her thumb hovering over Kate’s number in her contacts list.

Sometimes, she ends up at Kate’s apartment, always with some lame excuse about having been in the neighborhood. Kate blasts obnoxious music and goes on and on about all the awesome things she’s going to do, and she insists on dragging America to meet Clint Barton (“the less cool Hawkeye”). America thinks about when they fought Mother together, of Kate’s satisfied smile as she loosed arrow after arrow with deadly accuracy. She wants to figure out how that can possibly be the same person who trips over Clint’s dog because she refuses to take off her sunglasses inside.

“See you later, princess,” America always says, before making a space-time rift with her heel and falling into it. Then she spends an hour or two in a dimension made of only clouds, but it’s never as fun as riding in Kate’s car or telling Kate stories or letting Kate make her dance to Lady Gaga. 

America Chavez is not in love with Kate Bishop.

She wonders what it would be like to scoop Kate up and take her flying.

Kate’s not that beautiful, America tells herself. America has seen her share of gorgeous girls – been with her share of gorgeous girls. Just because Kate has that cute little petulant smile does not mean that she’s anything impressive. And her clothes are ridiculous. No human being should be able to wear that much purple and pull it off. It’s an abuse of power or something.

“You’re like a cat,” says David, too observant for his own good, “You just happen to be in the same room with Kate all the time. Maybe one of these days you should just happen to kiss her and see how it goes.”

Right, because that worked out so well for you, America wants to tell him, but instead she doesn’t say anything.

When Kate breaks up with Noh-Varr (again), she calls America, for some bizarre reason. America is hovering over the Eiffel Tower when she gets the voicemail. Ten minutes later she’s waiting to be buzzed up to Kate’s apartment, popping her gum and trying to look bored instead of anxious. Kate’s in her pajamas, white with a pattern of martini glasses, and she’s, to America’s surprise, grinning.

“Time for a post-breakup girls’ night,” Kate announces, and before America knows it she’s listening to Hilary Duff and watching Kate drunkenly attempt to do the Macarena.

“You know,” says America, “In most universes, the Macarena is done to the song ‘Macarena.’” She tries to hide the fact that she’s laughing by taking another sip of beer.

“Ah, come on! That’s so booooooring,” Kate yells over the music, before grabbing America’s hand and pulling her up from the couch. Suddenly, they’re close enough that America could count Kate’s eyelashes, and Kate’s arm, strong and solid from shooting a bow, is draped over one of America’s shoulders.

“You’ve just gotta shake things up sometimes, you know?” Kate mumbles. She’s warm and human and smiling mischievously and so, so close.

America is totally cool and in control of this situation.

(That’s bullshit.

She wants to kiss Kate Bishop.

She wants to kiss Kate who is drunk and just broke up with a _boy_.)

“I think you’ve had enough, princess,” America says, and guides Kate to the couch. Kate mutters in protest, but as soon as America drapes a blanket around her shoulders she curls up and starts to doze. America shuts off the music and sits listening to Kate’s steady breathing until the sun comes up. She smiles fondly when Kate spreads out her body across the entire couch as if to say it is hers, thank you very much. Bratty even when you’re unconscious, America thinks.

America leaves before Kate wakes up and spends the next day riding the eye of a superstorm off the coast of one of her favorite Antarcticas. The next time Kate calls, America doesn’t pick up. 

She listens to Kate’s voicemail while she’s in the middle of a fight she knows she’s going to win.

“Did I say something stupid when I was drunk?” – _whack_ – “‘Cause you haven’t been by and…” – _punch_ – “well, Billy wants to hang out with you, sooooo…” – _slam_ – “Ok, look, the truth is that I really wanted to kiss you this Saturday –”

_CLACK_

The douchebag Skrull guy America is fighting seems so surprised that he actually managed to get in a punch that he stops and stares at her for a second. She massages her nose with one hand and motions for him to wait with the other before clicking a few buttons and replaying the message.

_Did I say something stupid when I was drunk? ‘Cause you haven’t been by and…well, Billy wants to hang out with you, sooooo…Ok. Ok, look, the truth is that I really wanted to kiss you this Saturday, and that was probably obvious. So, let’s forget about it, ok? I mean, unless you don’t want to forget about it, in which case that’s ok, too, but it’s really your call because I’m just totally embarrassed and Clint says that I should try communicating better but honestly should anybody really be taking relationship advice from Clint and oh my god I’m rambling so I’m gonna hang up now alright bye._

“Who’s that, your boyfriend?” the guy laughs, finally recovered from the shock.

America kicks him in the head and takes off for New York.

She decides to bypass the outdoor security and just drop soundlessly from a portal in the ceiling of Kate’s hallway. From the apartment, she can hear Kate blasting Joan-fucking-Jett at full volume. Her neighbors must hate her. I really shouldn’t think that’s cute, America thinks. 

America knocks on the door as hard as she can without breaking it down, and after a moment the music clicks off and Kate appears at the door - fresh-faced, hair up in a tight ponytail and a broom still in her hand. America belatedly remembers that Joan Jett is Kate’s “cleaning pump-up music,” because apparently having special cleaning music is something Kate Bishop considers essential to her life. 

“I take it you were in the neighborhood?” Kate says, straight-faced for once. 

“Yeah, something like that,” America replies, “You gonna let me in, princess?” 

Kate steps aside to let America by. When America enters the apartment, she notices that Kate seems to have attacked her habitual mess with a vengeance - the rooms are free of most of their usual clutter. The two of them stand in the kitchen stiffly examining the shining floor until America finally clears her throat. 

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t pick up when you called, I was - ”

“- Probably saving the multiverse or something, I get it,” Kate finishes for her. There’s another silence. It’s awkward. America doesn’t do awkward. 

“Look, Kate,” she begins, but before she can finish, Kate is kissing her. Kate must have crossed the kitchen floor without America even being aware of it, and suddenly her lips are on Kate’s and Kate’s hands are in her hair and she’s being pushed into the kitchen table with far more force than she would have expected. It’s warm, it’s human, and it’s better than supernovas. It’s better than anything. 

When they finally pull their lips apart, they’re both flushed and smiling and America can feel her own heart thumping in her chest. Yeah, ok, she might be a little bit in love with Kate Bishop. Kate takes a deep breath and, with effort, sets her mouth into a serious line. 

“America,” she says, slowly and deliberately, “I don’t think I’m that straight.” 

America feels the laughter bubbling in her stomach before it starts. By the time it subsides, they’re both sitting on Kate’s gleaming kitchen floor, limbs tangled up in each other. Fine, America thinks, she might be a lot in love with Kate Bishop. 

“What d’you say, princess?” America murmurs, kissing Kate behind the ear, “Wanna go save the world?” 

If there’s one thing America Chavez has always thought, it’s that when you can kick holes in the universe, you kind of stop being impressed by things. Later that night, watching Kate maneuver her bow like it’s a part of her to make sure every arrow hits home, she’s glad to know that she was wrong.


End file.
